if you take requests rn, a fallen angel that wishes to be close to god again?
you sit in the last pew, as near to the door as you can manage, just in case. at any moment, the pipes of the organ could contort into unplayable shapes, the pulpit could catch fire, or the hymnal books could transform into frogs: signs from heaven declaring you are not meant to be here. you keep a white-knuckle grip on your bible.
the pastor says, we are all small beings striving for a greater light.
when you shook his hand before the start of service, those last remnants of grace echoing in you understood that he broke his nose four times in bar fights before he decided to put down the bottle and take up the cloth, that he and his wife shared their first kiss under a peach tree ten summers ago, that he will die at sixty five in a car crash, his body a tangle of torn muscles and blood. it is like this every time you touch someone.
the pastor says, we are all trying to make a moving whole out of our fractured pieces.
you look not at your knees, but at the church’s stained glass windows. closest to you: their image of jesus laying his hand upon a dying man. back when you had wings of lightning and a voice that made moonflowers bloom, you and three other angels watched as jesus bit into an apple and spat one of his milk teeth into the grass. you remember how he had run to mary on his unsteady young legs with apple juice all over his dark hands, shouting, mama, look at my mouth!
the pastor says, there is not one of us in here who god does not want to hold close.
in heaven, you sang for centuries on end, heralding the births of a hundred thousand galaxies. but that was before. when you return to your apartment this afternoon, you will put on a large pot of coffee and sing in all the empty rooms knowing that you no longer have to power to perform miracles like shifting tectonic plates or curing your neighbor’s arthritis. you will sing in your new voice, the sound of it as fragile as a thrush learning to take flight, and you will sing to god asking for every shred of redemption you’re allowed to have.
a little something i'm working on rn
we are sins
shrink-wrapped in silence and
splashed across cherry-flushed cheeks.
we are unholy tongues sliced
at their roots: offerings
smeared across foreheads
in upside down crosses.
we are the children of judas,
and we are not to be trusted -
or so we’ve been told.
—prophecy
A certain fisherman [...] went to the same place again to fish, and he put a row of hooks on his heels in case he met the Púca again; he attached them like a horseman's spurs. When evening drew near, he made a halter of the fishing-line for the Púca. The Púca met him the second time. He himself caught the Púca, put the fishing-line over his head like a halter, and started to ride him. He drove him wherever he wanted to go, and he kept putting his heels with the hooks like spurs to the Púca's sides, so that the Púca was shedding blood from the pricks of the hooks.
Excerpt from "The Púca: A Multi-Functional Irish Supernatural Entity" by Deasún Breatnach
#is this not how the scene went?
I've been compelled since the end of GO S2 to draw cheer-up post-fix-it fluff comic.
Tbh, the first four pages are just filler to get to the point where I could start drawing (and ogling pictures of) long-hair Crowley being needy (Biblical Crowley is sooo my jam)😍😆
Honestly, the standard of Good Omens fanart is so insanely high I was kinda nervous to even start drawing any (and I haven't done a comic in yearrrrs). But it was really really fun. Thank you for looking!❤
A celebration of Arizona and Travis Dermott
I JUST WOKE UP THIS IS CRAZY. IM LOOSING IT
Crorzoi and Aziraphoyed
wanted to make this silly comic for awhile. he’s a vampire!
Gay kissing?? Don’t mind if I do!!
late fragment, raymond carver
I love one (1) boy
hay naminhod kun he-a ya maid di kiingngohana (my love for you is beyond comparison)
happy international lesbian day <3
just found out i've been abandoned by god which means he's not watching anything i do anymore. you should come over.
Accept that good won’t last, and acknowledge that bad won’t either.